


A French Farce

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: 17th Century, Identity Porn, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 17:27:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16288760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Philippe, a new soldier in the Cardinal's Guards, rescues the last man he should.





	A French Farce

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Selden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selden/gifts).



Liveried servants opened cover after cover, revealing supper in a dramatic display. Unfortunately, despite their best efforts, in the flickering candlelight of the velvet-hung dining room, the fish looked spoiled and the bread an algae-like green. 

The comtesse d’Averny did not seem to notice, for she murmured approval with every new dish. The count merely grunted, and only because had a footman had refilled his wine glass.

“Everything looks delicious, aunt,” Philippe lied.

“A feast fit for a ravenous soldier,” the countess proclaimed proudly. 

“Soldier?” the elderly count sputtered, spewing red droplets onto his collar. He adjusted his belly in order to cross his legs. “I’ve seen these guardsmen loitering all over Paris. Fun-loving fellows.”

“No, my love,” the countess retorted, checking to ensure the servants had gone out before putting on her pince nez. “You’re thinking of the King’s Musketeers. Those are the rumbustious louts you have seen about, spewing lust, drunkenness and villainy throughout the city. Philippe has joined the _Cardinal’s Guards_ , dear. They are an equally elite, yet vastly more respectable company, as a member of which Philippe will bring even more of his Eminence’s regard upon our house.”

“If you say so,” the comte replied. “Though I wish he’d joined the King’s Musketeers. He’d be less dull if he had.”

“I would never be one of those ruffians, uncle,” Philippe said, in the tone of disdain he had learned in his sole afternoon as a Cardinal’s Guard. 

“And I say it is a pity. There is one even I have heard of. An adventurer named Ventoux. His daring escapades are recounted even in the halls of the Louvre, to the tittering of the ladies and the envy of all the gentlemen. If you knew him, then I should be more popular at court, for I would have first access to such tales.”

“I am _so_ pleased you left your uniform on so that I could have see you in it,” the countess said, completely ignoring her husband.

“You saw him in it this morning,” the count pointed out.

“But I will never tire of seeing him in it. He looks so very handsome and dashing.”

“He looks skinny and pale, and on the verge of having the croup,” the count interjected.

Philippe politely forced food down while the count and countess argued the point. Privately, though a man of any self-respect could hardly own it aloud, he agreed with the count. He knew he hadn’t looked the part, knew that he cut a poor figure as a soldier. 

Squinting at his food, and not at Philippe, the count asked, “And have you yet met his Eminence?”

“Yes, uncle, this afternoon,” Philippe said, too depressed to have much appetite, and probably for the best, considering the overcooked nature of the sauces. “Your letter of introduction was enough to admit me into his Eminence’s study for an interview.”

“And how did you find the great man?” the comtesse asked.

“Hunched, exhausted, and wearing a distracting ink stain at the corner of his mouth. He was most civil to me, however, and asked after your health, madame.”

At this, the worthy comtesse feigned a swoon. “He knows me? He eminence remembers me?”

“You’ll sprain your eye sockets again if you aren’t careful,” the count said in between dispassionate bites.

Philippe shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He knew not how to pretend enthusiasm he did not feel, yet knew that he should. Anything less than complete reverence for Cardinal Richelieu was considered heresy in his family, especially here, in the house of his aunt and uncle, who had been so generous to him, paying for his equipment and giving him lodging in this overwhelming and expensive city. 

If only he cared one whit about any of it. 

The lavish dinner in his stomach—Parisians exerted themselves less, yet ate more than country folk, Philippe was learning—weighed even heavier than his spirit. He complained of over-excitement and fatigue halfway through the fourth course. 

With all the solemnity of a grateful and dutiful ward, Philippe bid the count and countess a good night. “I have an early morning, and my rounds, you know.”

“Of course, dear boy. You must get a good night’s sleep every day this week. The first week is always the most crucial.”

“I rather think the week when one actually goes to war is the most crucial,” the count scoffed.

Philippe’s room was located towards the back of the house, which was the highest around the Place St. Sulpice, and boasted an expansive view of the city. Once in his horribly old-fashioned, Charles XIX-style refuge, Philippe shed not only the black cassock that the countess had insisted he keep on during the meal, but also any pretensions to gaiety; both cloaks suited him ill. 

While hanging the cassock in the garde de robe, he spied the stack of drawing equipment that he had placed there the night before. Putting away childish things, the count had called it, echoing Philippe’s parents all his life. Becoming a man meant focusing on the serious business of life and honour, the countess had agreed. But to Philippe, it was as though he had locked away all the joy in his life.

He knew that he should keep all that locked away, but he sensed something poignantly contradictory about the fact that his ‘childish’ loves lay in the same place where his hated new trappings spent the night. 

“One last time, for tonight only,” he lied to himself as he gave into temptation.

Feeling guilty for disobeying his guardians, he took out his engraving tools. He moved the chair to the small balcony and propped his feet on the railings in order to use his legs as a draughtsman’s table. His fingers, which had felt tense and cramped all day while gripping his sword hilt, finally relaxed around the burin. 

Paris, for all its noise and stench and cold-hearted horrors, was beautiful like this, bathed in moonlight—more of a series of vague shapes to capture than a city. From up here, looking over the dark, rounded metal roofs of the quartier, Philippe felt almost at home. 

He basked in the relative quiet—for the city never _quite_ slept—for what could have been a few minutes or an hour. Eventually, a scrabbling and a shouting that he had at first assumed to be part of the urban concerto grew closer. A moving shape disrupted the lines of the roofscape he had been capturing. At first Philippe shuddered, assuming it was rats. He stood up to go to bed, the beauty of the night now ruined for him by vermin—larger and more disgusting here in Paris than at home. 

What followed happened too quickly to follow, but the next thing he knew, man had leaped from a neighboring roof and was hanging desperately from the iron bars of his balcony. Philippe stood gaping, engraving implements still in hand. 

“Help me please, if you possess any heart,” the man whispered, as soon as he’d caught his breath.

“Who are you?” asked Philippe, who was a deliberate, sensible young man, not given to dramatic or impetuous reactions. 

“Your sworn friend forever, if you let me in,” the man replied. He had finally gotten a good grip on the bars, secure enough to tilt his head up. The moonlight shadowed high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, large dark eyes and a broad, noble forehead. The dark shadow of a beard completed a face that was almost _too_ handsome. 

Nothing this beautiful could be innocent, could be safe. Philippe’s lonely, generous heart warred with his mind, which told him not to help an obviously disreputable stranger. The man’s attire did little to alter this unfavorable first reaction. He was not fully dressed—he seemed to be missing a cloak or any kind of covering that would complete his ensemble, and his hat must have fallen off during his flight. His had abandoned boots as well, which explained how he had been able to run along the metal rooftops without waking the entire neighborhood.

However, these clever precautions now amounted to very little, for the cries and shouts coming from someone in the streets were alerting the neighborhood quite effectively. 

The man held a sword in one hand, which meant that his entire weight dangled from the other. Apparently sensing that his grip was about to falter, he gracefully placed the sword between his teeth and swung himself so that both hands held onto the balcony. This new pose managed to showcase his handsomeness even more, by demonstrating the strength in his square, handsome jaw. Although now rendered mute, he looked up at Philippe with more eloquence than words could have expressed. 

Philippe took a deep breath and did the most sensible thing he could think of: he reached over and took the sword out of the man’s mouth. 

Philippe had been raised on tales of the wiliness of Parisian thieves and marauders. He knew full well what this man was likely after. However, something in his heart said to trust. (And anyway, he was now armed, while the other man lacked a weapon, as well as shoes. As solid a position of strength as any man could ask for.) So, he reached over the balcony and grasped the man’s wrist. 

The process could hardly be called elegant, and some uncouth language escaped both of their lips, but after a small struggle, in which Philippe managed to keep hold of the weapon _without_ accidentally running the man through, they ended up safely inside, in a tangled heap on the floor, stockinged feet pressing into one another’s calves. The stranger’s bulk sprawled diagonally across Philippe’s heaving breast and his elbow wedged painfully into Philippe’s ribs. The man’s breath blew hot against Philippe’s neck, but it did not smell of drink. 

He could not decide if this was reassuring or not. What was unquestionably _not_ reassuring was how he’d lost control of the weapon in the tumble. It had slid across the tile floors and out of reach. But thankfully, the man seemed too relieved to notice. He lay panting on top of Philippe, catching his breath. 

Philippe considered this a good sign.

“If the gratitude you promised is real, monsieur,” he panted, “I would ask as my only repayment that you shift a bit. I lack air.”

The man scrambled off him immediately. All that lovely warmth disappeared, and Philippe regretted having said anything. For what was air, in the grand scheme of things? 

“A thousand apologies, monsieur,” the man said. He stood up and helped Philippe to his feet, and then bowed low and beautiful. “I am officially your servant, your devotee, your… yours.”

“Keep your voice down,” Philippe urged, even as he thrilled. “The older the inhabitants of a house, the sharper their ears. And I am the youngest person in residence here by a good forty years.”

“I’m sure my pursuers have roused them, regardless of the volume of our voices. Hark!” The man ran to the door and pressed his ear against it. “Ah, already they stir.”

And yes, past the rushing of his ears and beating of his heart, Philippe could hear the sounds of the maison rousing itself. Servants murmuring on the back stairs. The shrill shrieks of the countess demanding to know what was going on. A furious pounding on the front door.

“Who is after you?” Philippe asked.

“The watch.” 

“What will happen if they catch you?”

“Dishonour upon my friends. I care not what happens to me, but it is them I worry for. I would fain ask a gentleman to lie—and a gentleman I perceive you to be—but…”

“You are safe with me. Now, hide in here, in case anyone decides to check on me.” He flung open the door of the garde de robe and pushed the man into the darkness. On his way out, he noticed the sword still on the ground, and decided to take it with him, to be safe.

“Philippe, what on earth…?” the countess asked when he ran into her in the corridor. 

“I will soon find out, madame,” he said bravely. Courage, usually the most elusive of virtues, came easily tonight, since he alone understood the matter. The encouraging smile the stranger had bestowed upon him before hiding helped as well. Not to mention the honor of handling this beautifully made, perfectly weighted sword. Whoever he was currently hiding in his room, Philippe decided, must be must be a great gentleman, indeed, to own such a thing. Or else a thief of the most brazen sort.

The servants were gathered by the door, unsure of how to proceed. Philippe stepped through them and opened it himself, almost getting a fist in the face for his efforts, since the men on the other side had been in mid-knock.

“What do you mean by rousing the neighborhood in this shocking manner?” he demanded of the watch, the enemy of the Guards, and even the loathsome Musketeers. “You have roused the esteemed count and countess of Averney with your vulgarity!”

“We are looking for a man. He was seen climbing into one of the houses on this stretch of street. I have a witness.”

“I care little for your witness. You have troubled our sleep. I tell you, you will find nothing here, so go along your way.” Philippe could hardly believe the words and tone coming from him at that moment. A simple handshake from his mysterious stranger had done more to solidify the mettle of his manner than a day in the great Cardinal’s presence.

“We will be watching this house,” the men said.

“Well, I had assumed as much. Otherwise, you would make for a poor sort of Watch, would you not? Now be gone, and do your watching from afar. Your visage offends me.” And with that, Philippe slammed the door in their faces, and turned around to see the entire household beaming at him.

“You were wonderful, Philippe,” the countess exclaimed with a kiss. 

“It was nothing,” he shrugged. This was all very well and good, but he itched to get back to his room and to the stranger.

“I didn’t think you had it in you, boy,” the count, who had appeared at the top of the balcony clad in shiningly embroidered pajamas, said. 

At any point in his life before this one, Philippe would have called such praise the highest of his life, but it paled to the stranger’s declaration of gratitude. 

“I think we’ve had more than excitement for one night. I’m going back to sleep.”

The relieved servants didn’t wait for a repetition, and scurried back to their sculleries and attics. 

When he returned to his room, Philippe found the man lolling indolently in his bed, cuffs loosened and shirt neck untied. He had spread Philippe’s entire collection of prints on the mussed sheets in front of him, and was inspecting them. He’d also found the apple that the maids had left for him that morning and was munching it. 

“These are quite good,” the man said of the pictures, as though his presence in Philippe’s bed were the most natural occurrence in the world. “Did you make all of them?”

“I told you to hide in there, not to go through my things,” Philippe chastised, snatching up the papers as brusquely but gently as he could, so as not to rip them.

“That’s the first place they would have looked. You are obviously new to this sort of game. No, much better for me to roll myself in the bedding and obscure my form with a cocoon of linens. For if they had opened the door even a crack, I would have screeched like a recently despoiled ex-maiden and shamed them for having interrupted a liaison, and for threatening my non-existent reputation. Nothing makes people clear out of a room faster than that.”

“You have some experience with this, I take it.”

“Oh, plenty. Now, back to these pieces of yours…”

“Please do not speak of them. Do not tease. It is humiliating enough that you have found them. I know it is beneath me to enjoy such things, with more than a dispassionate amateur’s interest, but—”

“I am not teasing you. I think you are talented, more than the men whose work I see sold in the galleries, or gracing the drawing rooms of the princes whose salons I have attended.”

(This statement caused Philippe to exhale a happy sigh, not because of the compliment, but because a man invited to the salons of princes was likely not a thief.)

“Thank you. But tonight was my last night at this hobby. I was meant to give it all up forever last night. It was only weakness that led me to draw again tonight. I should not have.”

“Well, it is to the world’s benefit that your will is not as strong as you would like it to be. By the by, I’ll have my sword back, if you please. My hand has felt empty without it.”

“What about your mouth? For that is how I saw you carrying it,” Philippe snapped, for lack of any cleverer response to that outrageous speech.

“My mouth prefers softer things,” was the man’s reply, accompanied by a flagrantly appraising glance that made Philippe’s face go hot.

“If I give this back to you, do I have your word as a gentleman to do me no harm?”

“Of course. I gave you my word to be your servant forever,” the man replied simply, and with an innate nobility that left Philippe, the second son of a duke, feeling a bit shy. 

Philippe flipped the sword around in order to present the hilt to his visitor. The man slid off the bed and took it with a smile.

“It is a fine sword,” Philippe said, relinquishing it with regret, but appreciating the warm fingers that touched his for a second. 

The man smiled down at the weapon. “Yes, it is the last vestige of a once-great house. It is… all I have, aside from my honor.”

“And your name, of course. May I know it?” Philippe asked, feeling that there was mystery upon mystery here to unravel. If he could discover but one, he might have felt more settled. 

The man seemed to waver, but there was no threat of a lie obscuring his moonlit good looks. “It would be better that you did not know it. For then, if anyone asks if you have seen me, you will not have to perjure yourself.”

“I appreciate your concern for my honour, but I have already lied to the men of the watch.”

“Ah, but they matter little, the dogs. I meant, if by chance, someone of note were to ask you, such as the worthy elders you say inhabit this house. I would not like you to debase your good word for me.”

“I merely wish to know _you_ ,” Philippe exclaimed, with embarrassingly more passion than he intended, “and to reassure myself that I have acted in the right.”

The outburst did not seem to have gone unnoticed, for the man drew even more tantalizingly close, even though he did not humiliate Philippe by calling direct attention to the words. “You have acted in the greatest right, for I am innocent of that which they accuse me!”

“And what is that?”

“Despoiling the daughter of a great house.”

“That is quite specific. Why would they think you had done so?”

The man’s lip curled in repressed laughter, as though midnight escapades with the Watch were some laughing matter. “Because I was standing sentry while my friend did the despoiling.”

Such aiding and abetting sounded almost as bad to Philippe’s strictly reared morality as doing the deed, but he felt nothing but a vague, irrelevant relief that his visitor had not been with a mistress that night.

“Then how came you to be chased along the rooftops?”

“I saw the lady’s father returning in the carriage sooner than expected, and sounded the alarm. Alas, the servants caught sight of me instead of my friend and gave chase. I assume he got away safely if they were still looking for me twenty minutes later.” 

“And your name?”

“Most people call me… But you, since you have saved me, since you are now my dearest friend… You may call me Etienne.”

Philippe wondered what he had been about to say, what name he would have given. He had never been on Christian name basis with a stranger, and could not tell if he should take offense or consider the familiarity a token of the kind of intimate friendship for which he longed. 

“I am the Marquis of Lannoy, but…” He gulped and hated so much stiffer his voice sounded than his heart felt when he said, “You may call me Philippe.”

“I heard you speaking downstairs of some people named d’Averny. Are you their son?”

“No, I have not that advantage. I am merely the count and countess’s ward, recently arrived in Paris. Last week, in fact.”

At this, Etienne sat back down on the bed and smiled. “Ah, then you must be in need of a tour! I knew it just by looking at you.” 

“I have been taken by the countess to see all the sights of note,” Philippe said stiffly. He hated how obvious his provincialism was stamped on his face, and bristled any time someone remarked upon it.

“I am sure they have driven you about in a carriage and shown you the façade of the Louvre, the cupola of Notre Dame, the halls of the Sorbonne,” Etienne said, witheringly.

“Yes, they have, in fact, and it was all very fine.”

Etienne suddenly pulled Philippe down to sit next to him. He might as well have been the embodiment of temptation itself as he whispered, quite unnecessarily close to Philippe’s ear, “But they did not show you the thousandth part of what makes Paris the greatest city in the world. The tavern in which you can eat the most tender lamb ever cooked, the passageway under the Pont Neuf that leads to a secret tunnel, the little balcony atop St Sulpice over there to which only those who bribe the monks with the correct vintage of Burgundy wine can gain admittance.” Etienne glanced at the stack of drawings that Philippe had not yet had a chance to rearrange and file away. “I know of a hundred spots where the most picturesque views can be had. Uninterrupted landscapes begging to be engraved. A handy assistant at your service to carry your tints and clean your brushes.”

“Oh, are they for hire all over the city?” Philippe had seen gentlemen with lackeys, but not artist assistants.

“No, you fool, I mean me.”

“Oh!”

Still taking all this in, Philippe watched in paralyzed and confused interest as Etienne loosened his shirt even more and began to pull his stockings and shirt off.

“What… what are you doing?”

“I may spend the night, may I not?”

“Why?” Philippe asked, his tongue heavy in his mouth. 

“To evade the Watch, of course. After your manly efforts downstairs just now, it would hardly do to turn me out and into their waiting arms ten minutes later.”

“Of course not. Yes, yes, you can stay here. I…” He looked around him at the large but largely empty room. There was no where to sleep except in the bed. “I suppose we can share.”

Etienne shrugged and then disappeared for a moment into his shirt. Through the linen, he said, “We do it all the time on the battlefield.” 

“Ah, yes, of course,” Philippe replied absently, finding himself unable to look away from the expanse of strong, defined, slightly scarred torso before him. He desperately longed for a way to undress for bed without letting Etienne see how very _not_ battle-scarred and worldly he was.

“It’s all right,” Etienne whispered kindly, as though reading Philippe’s thoughts. “We all have our first to look forward to. Instead of feeling unworthy, you should instead think of yourself as bursting with the promise of valor and danger. When the time comes, you will bear your scars with great beauty, or perhaps excel at the art of war as well as you excel at the art of engraving, in which case your body will remain as blemish-free as your soul so obviously is.” 

Philippe felt grateful for the half-light so that Etienne would not see how aroused such a speech and such a view made him. But then, it mattered little, because he did the one thing that would prove to his new friend that courage on the battlefield was not the only kind that mattered. He leaned in—the distance honestly measured mere inches—and pressed his lips meaningfully against Etienne’s half-open ones. To grasp Etienne’s lower lip between his was the easiest thing in the world, and to slide his tongue just inside Etienne’s mouth the next easiest.

He drew back when he had made his point to find Etienne staring at him.

Philippe felt his blood run cold. “I hope I have not interpreted this situation entirely—”

In answer, Etienne grasped Philippe by the back of the neck and pulled him back in for another kiss. He arranged their bodies together on the bed by pushing with his hip and wrapping with his legs and by moving his big hands all over Philippe, like a sculptor molding clay.

“Mon Dieu, you kiss well,” Etienne moaned after a particularly deep one, thus putting any lingering hesitation on Philippe’s part to an end. “It was a happy fate that led me to this balcony instead of to the one next house over.”

“That house is inhabited by the duc de Rochefort, who would have been very unlikely to kiss you, no matter your roguish charm.”

At this, Etienne startled. “Le duc de Rochefort? The captain of the Cardinal’s Guards?”

“The very same. He and my guardians are great friends. Or, rather, la comtesse would like to be. It was at Rochefort’s recommendation that they let this house when they moved to Paris. And it is he who has promised to look after my career.”

“Your career as what? Tell me that you mean your career as an artist,” Etienne begged. 

“No, of course not,” Philippe replied feeling rather miffed that they’d stopped kissing in order to talk boring business. “That is hardly a career for a marquis. I mean, as a soldier in his Eminence’s service, the service that I joined this morning.”

Etienne groaned, but Philippe did not think it caused by finally slipping a hand into his trousers—anything to get back to matters at, well, hand.

“Is something wrong?” Philippe asked. “Have I…”

“No,” Etienne said firmly. He shook his head and climbed with great decision on top of him. “You have done nothing wrong at all. But I fear… I fear that come the morrow, you will want very little to do with me. And so, I must make the most of the time we have allotted.”

And with great skill and grace and passion, he most certainly did.

* * *

The next morning, Philippe woke to the feeling of a hairy leg draped over his, and an unfamiliar sword propped up on the side of the bed frame. In his sleep, Etienne mumbled something that sounded sentimental, and entwined their fingers.

Philippe gazed at him with a full heart and a stirring of arousal that he had thought it would be some before he recovered enough from the night’s exertions to feel again. However, sadness slid in alongside these other emotions. While he felt that Etienne’s eyes and body had more than confirmed the reciprocation of feelings quickly developed but already deeply, desperately ingrained in his soul, the proclamations Philippe might have hoped for had not been forthcoming. 

Perhaps he’d been mistaken. Perhaps there was something as wrong with him as his tutors and governesses and fencing masters and parents had always implied. Something unlovable. Perhaps this was never meant to be more than a beautiful instance of ships passing in the night. The kind of urban adventure that happened all the time, and which only the most stupidly innocent provincials could take for more.

He took a deep breath and decided to proceed as though his heart were not on the verge of breaking. 

“It is time to rise, friend,” he said gently, with a nudge at Etienne’s shoulder. “My shift begins soon, so I must leave.”

Etienne almost slapped him in his disorientation. But then his eyes settled on Philippe’s face, and he looked sad. Squinting at the sunlight streaming in through the window, he said, “I see that it is time to wish you good morning, and, I suppose, a prelude to an adieu.”

“I had hoped for an au revoir.”

Etienne frowned and changed the subject. “How do you propose to get me out?” 

“The count and countess are likely still asleep, and only the kitchen staff stirs this early. It is bold, but if we take the main staircase...”

“I will need a cloak of some kind, and a hat. As well as boots. I give you my word that all this will be returned to you within the day. I am no thief in the night.”

Well, Phlippe thought, you have stolen my heart, so you have some skill at theft. Aloud, all he said was, “Luckily I think our feet are about the same size.” 

Etienne grimaced as he watched Philippe dress, and then looked depressed at the final piece—the cassock. 

“I hope it is not rude of me to say, but this dress suits you very ill.”

“What would you have me wear instead?”

“Nothing, save for ink that I cover you with. But, I do realize that is hardly a costume. If you must dress, I would have you…” He stopped abruptly and grabbed his head with both hands. “Oh, what is the use? Let us go. Let it end without any more of this torturous prolonging!”

Philippe began to worry for his lover’s sanity, even as his breast filled with possessive admiration at how well Etienne looked in his old clothes. 

Just before they left the bedroom, Etienne pulled him in for a vicious kiss. “Thank you for the most beautiful night I have ever known.”

“It was for me, as well. But…”

“If we pass anyone in the street, you must pretend not to know me. You must pretend that we have never met, that we feel enmity.”

“But why?”

“Promise me. Others will not understand.”

“I am not certain that I can. I would lie to save you, without hesitation. But to deny you? Never.”

“Then I must be the strong one.”

“What on earth is the matter?”

“It’s Largonne,” Etienne said, somewhat strangely.

“What is?”

“My name. Etienne Largonne, eldest son of the duc de Narbonne. That is who I am. No one else knows, only my captain, and god. But I want you to know, so that you might understand that I do not shun you out of lack of feeling.”

“That family was thought to have been exterminated under the previous rule!” Philippe exclaimed. Everyone had heard the story of the martyred traitors, the marechal turned traitor who had conspired against his king. A horribly business, but one in which the deceased duc de Narbonne had behaved with the greatest principles, even if they had perhaps been the wrong ones. 

“Yes, which is why no one knows. I refuse to name myself until I have covered myself in enough glory to counterbalance the curse than hangs over our family name. Which is why I cannot give it all up, not even for you.”

And with that, he flung the door open and staggered confidently into the hallway like a drunk man, even though he did not know the way, leaving Philippe simultaneously confused and heartbroken. They descended safely and were soon out on the street. They had hardly made it to the next street when someone shouted. 

“Ventoux, you ass!” 

Philippe recognized the man approaching them by his blue cassock. One of the King’s Musketeers. He hung back, not because he was heeding Etienne’s request, but rather out of shock when he saw Etienne run up to him and embrace him.

“We searched all night for you, Ventoux, and our only hope lay in the fact that the Watch continued to search for you, too. Even Captain Treville sent more men on the hunt to find you before they did. Where on earth did you hide for an entire night?”

“Oh, a gentleman would never divulge,” Etienne, who apparently not only a Musketeer, but the infamous Musketeer _Ventoux_ , said with an easy smile. “I found the window of someone very fair, and, well. You know.”

The Musketeer threw his head back and laughed. “We should have known better than to worry about you. With that face, you will never lack for escape routes. Now come. I have brought you your cassock and your hat. Treville awaits, and is expecting a grand tale.”

Etienne put his uniform on, right there in the street, but before his eyes became obscured by the hat’s wide brim, he looked furtively back at Philippe, with apology written in his gaze. Then he turned back to his friend and vanished around a corner, laughter trailing behind him.

Philippe had not thought his heart could feel any less enthusiasm for his work than it had on the previous day. He’d been wrong.

That night, he tore his entire room apart, but could not find two of his most prized drawings. The two that Etienne had peered at with the greatest admiration. 

A thief, to boot.

* * *

_**Six Months Later** _

The countess had succeeded in her goal to settle herself in Parisian society, which meant that Philippe’s nights could not have been spent drawing, even if he had not cut himself off from the hobby. She took him everywhere, from salon party to salon party. The count relied upon his presence, as well, as he was, in the count’s words, “the only relaxing face in the crowd.”

Tonight’s affair was the most glittering, the most grand. Even the queen was in attendance, gambling at a central table, and winning. All the talk was of the latest war in Flanders, and of the great victory enjoyed yet again by the great Condé. 

Philippe cared but little. His spirits had not recovered since that night. He had come so close to love, to true kinship, only to discover that his love was his enemy, and that it could never be. Ventoux’s name was everywhere, cursed by every one of Philippe’s fellow guardsmen. 

“It was not I, however,” the Prince was telling the queen, within Philippe’s earshot. “I owe it all to my most trusted lieutenant, who saved my life and the lives of fifty of my men, in the most daring act of valor I have ever seen. He was even shot while rescuing us all, and lives solely because a some sort of paper that soaked the bood. A Musketeer in the King’s service that, if Monsieur de Treville will allow, I would like to steal for my own, and promote to captain in my army.”

“I am certain that Treville would allow it, and I myself will ask the king to grant you this man,” the queen said sweetly. “But who is he? You know I love to meet men of courage.”

“I have taken the liberty of bringing him to the soiree, your highness.” De Condé gestured and the crowd of courtiers parted to reveal Etienne—Ventoux—looking noble and beautiful and humble in his simple Musketeer’s cassock. 

Philippe gasped, but no one was looking at him. Not when Etienne was standing there, looking so handsome, and so well spoken of by the great Condé. 

Etienne removed his hat and threw himself gracefully at the queen’s feet. 

“I am but your humble servant, my queen.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Etienne Largonne, your highness,” he said simply. “Duc de Narbonne.”

Everyone at the gathering gasped. Everyone except Philippe, who alone had known. He barely heard the queen’s gracious reinstitution of Etienne’s family. Barely heard the Prince’s corroboration. All that mattered was that the Prince himself helped Etienne remove his Musketeer’s cassock, and replace it with a general’s cloak. All that Philippe saw was the hint of paper peeking out of the linen of Etienne’s clothes, bearing drawings that he knew all too well, tinted red. 

A thief after all, but Philippe could not be angry about it.

Philippe had thought that Etienne—now the recognized duc de Narbonne—remained in ignorance about his presence in the room. However, as soon as the queen’s attention had been diverted, the young duke’s eyes immediately sought out Philippe’s, and he mouthed words at an angle that only Philippe could see.

“Tonight, my love, I will carry your brushes.”


End file.
